


On a Mission

by Nelle816



Category: Lethal Weapon (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Sad, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-07
Updated: 2016-10-07
Packaged: 2018-08-20 02:04:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8232259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nelle816/pseuds/Nelle816
Summary: He didn’t want to do this, but sometimes shit just had to get done.





	

Martin scratched at the butterfly bandage next to his eye. It didn’t really itch. The movement was an excuse to poke the cut underneath and feel a fresh slice of pain. He didn’t want to do this, but sometimes shit just had to get done. If he didn’t get on it now, Maureen and Lucy from dispatch would be rounding up every single woman in the county to come over and “help.” The thought of anyone else rummaging through Miranda’s things sent a chill down his spine. 

“Suck it up, buttercup.” He muttered under his breath as he rolled up his sleeves. He grabbed the first box off the stack and upended the bottom dresser drawer into it. One folded pair of jeans tried to escape, but he kicked them back over the edge with his boot and shook the box so he didn’t have to touch any of the clothes. When he pulled open the third drawer, he was leaning a little too close and got a whiff of her scent. After that he tried not to breathe as he juggled the drawers in and out of the dresser. 

The closet was next. Shoes thumped into a duffle bag and the hangers jangled as he scooped handfuls into a wardrobe box. If anything slithered off into the bottom of the box, he didn’t try to pick it up. He'd learned on his two previous attempts to “clear personal items from the home” as his realtor called it, that touching and smelling her clothes ended badly. He swallowed against the lump rising in his throat and scratched at his eye again. He should probably grab that sweater that was wadded up between the pillows on the couch as well. 

_Just a couple more boxes, then we'll go drink the rest of that bottle in the kitchen._ Martin bargained with himself as he taped up the wardrobe box. He tried to look at the room like he was on a mission with his SEAL team. It wasn't hard to imagine tangos lurking in the closet or an IED in the jewelry box. He worked faster, sloppier, trying to get the job done before the memories caught up and dragged him down. 

When the pile of empty boxes had all been filled and shuffled to the garage, taped and marked with an M, he snatched the half-full bottle of whisky off the kitchen counter. His throat burned as he took a long pull, not bothering to find a glass. He took another swig and then turned to look back down the hall. What was left to do? He'd cleaned out the living room. He'd paired down the kitchen to just the few things he'd used in the last 4 months. The bathrooms were practically empty, and the bedroom was going to have to be good enough. 

The realtor had said he didn't need to remove everything, just most things. It helped the potential buyers see the spaces and imagine their own belongings. It was all bullshit as far as Martin was concerned, but he knew it needed to be done sometime. The only room he hadn't touched was the closed door across from the master bedroom. He couldn't do it. Realtor be damned, he wouldn't go into the nursery. Couldn't. 

He did another turn, took yet another drink while taking in the now generic looking rooms. It didn't matter. Even without pictures and personal things, he still saw Miranda in every room, on every piece of furniture, even through the front picture window. 

“Fuck it!” he drained the bottle and chucked it into the trash. “I gotta get out of here.” 

In less than an hour he had hitched up the old airstream he'd bought for hunting trips and thrown the essential items in. Miranda had always planned to give the trailer a cutesy remodel, but thankfully had never gotten around to it. He pulled out of the driveway and out onto the highway as the sun was starting to go down. He called his chief, who he knew wasn't in the office and left a voicemail. 

“I'm leaving town. Probably won't be back. You can cancel the paid leave. I'll call you when I land. Tell Colin and the guys I said goodbye and thanks for all ya’ll done.” He clicked the phone closed and drove north. 

The sofa bed smelled of mildew and old spilled beer when he collapsed onto it that night. He’d driven until he couldn't stay awake, singing along to every sad song on the radio, then pulled over at a Walmart to sleep. He didn't bother to hook up the marine battery, he just laid down in the dark. 

Two days later, when he finally camped somewhere with hookups and showers, he remembered to charge his phone. He felt good that morning, and when he checked his messages, there was one from his father-in-law. He said he'd called the station in El Paso, and if Martin wanted a new start, he could get him a job in LA. The birds sang overhead, the campfire crackled, and the breeze smelled like pine. Martin sat there for a long time staring at Miranda's picture on his phone before finally deciding to do it. What did he have to lose anyway? The pain certainly couldn't be worse. And besides, he'd need beer money soon enough.

**Author's Note:**

> I was feeling maudlin after episode 3 and knew I wanted to write a little about Riggs' pain. I asked my twitteroos for prompts. This developed from PR's 'The move from Texas to California' with a nod to Tanya's 'Dismantling the nursery.' Thank you to all my sweet friends. 
> 
> I'm new to this whole tagging thing, so if you have any suggestions for tags, please feel free to let me know.


End file.
